The de Valery Code (17 page)

He stood in front of the fireplace, which hadn’t been lit due to the warmth of the day, and leaned against the mantel. His demeanor and stance made him look as though he belonged here.

Margery drew her dressing gown more tightly around herself. “What did you want to discuss?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “The treasure, assuming we decipher the code and that it actually exists.”

She’d begun to feel unsettled about it after making Lord Nash’s acquaintance. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. I wonder if this treasure wouldn’t actually belong to Lord Nash, certainly half of it, but perhaps the entirety. At the very least, I should return the book to his family.”

Mr. Bowen dropped his arms to his sides and blinked at her. “You’d do that?”

She lifted a shoulder. “It seems like the right thing to do. It did belong to his family originally.”

“But it may have been purchased fairly by yours.” He smiled. “Don’t misunderstand me, I think it’s an admirable thought. I'm just not sure it’s necessary. He didn’t ask for its return.”

“No, he didn’t.”

He pushed away from the mantel and took a few steps toward her, his eyes narrowed with concern. “Besides, don’t you need the money? Either from selling the book or the treasure itself?”

Yes, but she still wasn’t comfortable disclosing just how desperately they needed it. “My aunts were interested in selling, but that was before I learned its true value. Treasure or no, I think they’d change their mind about selling such a dear artifact.” Margery wasn’t certain of that, but acknowledged
she’d
have trouble parting with it—even to return it to Lord Nash.

Mr. Bowen studied her for a long moment as if he didn’t believe her. She turned and took several steps to increase the distance between them.

“Is that all you wanted?” she asked, facing him once more, wondering if he felt the heat swirling in the air, or if it was just her fancy.

“Not quite. I also wanted to, ah, apologize for last night. For kissing you again. Particularly after I said I wouldn’t.” His complexion darkened.

She fought to cloak her smile. His discomfiture was surprisingly attractive. Like his arrogance. Mr. Bowen was more complicated than she’d initially thought. “I wasn’t exactly blameless. However, we can’t let it happen again.”

“Of course not.” His tone was strong, definitive. “I give you my word.”

She considered making a jest about him already breaking the pledge, but decided not to. They shouldn’t flirt anymore. It encouraged things better left alone. “Thank you.”

“Well then, I suppose I must say good night. Unless you want to take another trip to the library?”

Part of her, the part that was rapidly beginning to appreciate Aunt Agnes’s way of living life, wanted to, but Aunt Eugenie’s reason and pragmatism won out. “Thank you, but no. I’m anxious for tomorrow, so I’d just as soon go to sleep and get to it as soon as possible.”

“I can’t argue with that.” He offered a bow. “Good night.” He turned and went to the door, but paused before leaving. “I really did love that you thought of returning the book to Nash.” His tone was warm, appreciative, and it made her regret her decision not to flirt and to decline his invitation to visit the library, and most of all their mutual anti-kissing pact.

With a slight nod, he turned, his hand on the door.

She rushed forward, but stopped a few feet from him. “Mr. Bowen? I told you I’d consider selling you the book and returning to Gloucester.”

He stared at her and her body hummed with the energy crackling between them.
 

“Even if I gave the book and the treasure to Nash, I’d still want to find it with you. It’s not at all proper or acceptable, but I don’t care.”

His gaze heated. “Neither do I, Miss Derrington. And
that
is why we make an excellent team.”

Chapter Ten

Rhys didn’t know if Miss Derrington had been able to find slumber, but he’d lain awake most of the night, his thoughts consumed with today’s excursion and Miss Derrington’s mouth. And her eyes. And that delectable dimple in her chin. Hell, every single damn thing about her.

Except the lying. That was something he’d like to forget, but was that smart? She’d deceived him once and he had to assume she might do so again. Her words last night,
I’d still want to find it with you,
had lessened his doubt—and fueled his desire. Thank God he’d had the sense to get the hell out of her room before making another scandalous mistake.

He finished his toilet, drawing his coat on, and made his way across the corridor to Miss Derrington’s room. She answered his summons immediately.

His breath stuck in his lungs as he stared at her. She wore her wide-brimmed hat with a green ribbon that tied beneath her chin. The ribbon brought out the green in her eyes, making them look vivid and lush against her pale flesh. She wore the ivory muslin dress with the small yellow flowers again. She looked fresh and lovely, like his favorite berries of summer or the winter’s first snow.

She stepped into the corridor, her book tucked beneath her arm. “Good morning.”

He shook himself from his fancy and offered his arm. “Good morning.”

She wrapped her hand around his elbow and they went downstairs.
 

Godfrey met them in the foyer. He held a bag that was similar to the one Rhys had given Margery for her manuscript. “I regret to inform you that his lordship suffered an attack of gout in the night. He is unable to accompany you to Mr. Hardy’s this morning, but he’s asked that you take his book in case you require its presence. He trusts you will ensure its safety.”

Rhys accepted the bag. “Please convey our concern and sincerest hope that he will feel better quickly. I will care for this book as if it were my own.”

Godfrey nodded. “I’m sure he’ll be able to join you downstairs later. Your coach is waiting in the drive.”

Rhys had arranged for Craddock to convey them to the cottage. “Thank you.”

A footman opened the door and Rhys gestured for Miss Derrington to precede him. Once they were ensconced in the coach, she said, “How disappointing for Lord Nash.”

The coach started forward and Rhys braced his feet on the floor. “Perhaps. Let us not convince ourselves that we’ll find anything.”

“I didn’t take you for a pessimist,” she said wryly.

“I prefer pragmatist.”

“That would describe me as well. Though, I must admit this treasure hunting business is quite invigorating.” She looked out the window, but cast him a covert glance.

He could see that she was a reasonable young woman, not moved to sentimentality or excessive emotion. He should find that attractive, given that’s how he would’ve described himself until several days ago. Until he’d met her. Now he felt passion whenever he looked at her or thought of her and a desire that was fast pushing the bounds of reason. He needed to rein himself in.

“What will we even look for?” she asked, turning her head to look at him.

He shrugged. “Some sort of documented clue would make sense, but I don’t think we can count on that. It’s been four centuries since he wrote this. We have to consider the possibility that whatever we need to decipher the code may no longer exist.” Yesterday, they’d discussed taking the books to Septon for his educated opinion regarding the code, but Miss Derrington had seemed reluctant. “If we don’t find anything, we still have Septon to consult.”

Again, she seemed less than enthused with this idea. Her lips pressed into a line and she looked outside.

“You don’t like this plan. Why?”

She shot him a noncommittal look. “I don’t know that it’s smart to share this with anyone, particularly someone who might be behind trying to steal the books.” She must be thinking of Septon’s presence on Stratton’s list.

“I would be willing to stake my reputation on him having nothing to do with the theft of Stratton’s fake or the attempts to steal your book.”

She said nothing, just continued to look out the window. Her stubbornness sparked his ire. More excessive emotion provoked by her. He tamped it down.

The coach passed a few small dwellings before turning down a narrow road that terminated at a stone cottage with a thatched roof. A rush of excitement shot through Rhys. He looked at Miss Derrington and her eyes found his. He read the same thrill in their depths.

Craddock opened the door and Rhys stepped out before turning to help Miss Derrington to the dirt track.

They walked to the door, crafted of thick, weathered oak, and he knocked sharply.

A long silence answered them, followed by the sound of trudging footsteps. The door creaked open to reveal a small man with very little hair. He looked up at Rhys and squinted. “My lord?”

“No,” Rhys said. “I’m Mr. Bowen, and this is Miss Derrington. Unfortunately, Lord Nash was unable to join us.”

“Ah.” The confusion that had clouded the man’s blue eyes dissipated. “I wondered why ye looked so young. Thought I’d lost me mind for a moment there. Everyone looks young to me anyway.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in then.” He turned and walked stiltedly into the main room.

Rhys gestured for Miss Derrington to precede him, then had to duck to follow her over the threshold. Once inside, he was able to stand straight. He closed the door behind him and blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim interior. A window beside the door and another on the opposite wall provided the only illumination.

“Have you lived here long, Mr. Hardy?” Miss Derrington asked as she took in their surroundings: a fireplace on the opposite wall, a small arrangement of rudimentary furniture, and, in one corner, a somewhat primitive kitchen.

“Me whole life,” he said. “I was born in that room, though it’s me bedchamber now.” He pointed to the doorway on the right side of the cottage. Another door sat in the center of the opposite wall, leading to the left side.

“And in that room?” Rhys asked, indicating the left chamber, trying to envision how this might have looked four hundred years ago.

“That was our bedroom when we were children. I had eight brothers and sisters, most of them are gone now, though.”
 

Rhys took a step toward his bedchamber and looked inquiringly at their host. “May I?”

“Aye.” Mr. Hardy rubbed his mostly-bald head. “His lordship’s footman said ye wanted to search the house, but he didn’t say what ye were looking for.”

Rhys smiled weakly, realizing how foolish this errand must seem. “We’re not exactly sure. A scribe lived here four hundred years ago and we’re looking for something he might’ve left behind. I don’t suppose there are any pieces of furniture that might be that old? A desk, perhaps?” It was far too much to hope for. He glanced at Miss Derrington, who stood near the fireplace clutching her book.

Mr. Hardy’s eyes clouded again, looking as they had when he’d first come to the door. “I’m afraid there isn’t anything like that. No desk, anyway. I don’t rightly know how long me bed’s been here. It was me parents’. There’s a table in the other room, and I’ve only kept one of the small beds that we shared when we were young. Ye’re welcome to look about.”

“We’ll be tidy about it,” Miss Derrington said, offering a warm smile. “You keep a lovely home, Mr. Hardy.”

The old man shuffled toward her. “Not as lovely as ye, miss. Or, are ye married?” He glanced over at Rhys.

Miss Derrington didn’t look at Rhys. “No, we are not.”

Mr. Hardy cackled. “That means I have a chance then.”

She grinned. “You most certainly do.”

Rhys’s heart thudded in his chest as another chink in his emotional armor splintered. He turned abruptly to go into the bedchamber. “I’ll look in here.”

The room wasn’t large and contained just a bed, a small fireplace, and a narrow armoire in the corner. He went to the piece of furniture and judged it to be far less than four hundred years old. The room had one window, which though clean, didn’t allow much light. The walls were whitewashed and undecorated.
 

He glanced around in frustration. What had he expected? He walked back into the main room where Miss Derrington was poking about the cupboard in the kitchen area. She turned when she heard the floor creak beneath Rhys’s feet. He shook his head at the question in her eyes.

As he crossed to the other room, he addressed Mr. Hardy, who’d sat in a chair and was watching them. “Is there anything extraordinary about the cottage? Any hiding places or unusual things you’ve noticed in your time here?”